


Lemon Tart

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, Nonverbal Communication, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-03 22:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10976664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: Jean-Pierre has to do his job.





	Lemon Tart

The incident with Mr. Hammersmith had taken the boys hard. Toki was hardly touching his steak. The chef, Jean-Pierre, attempted to motion towards it. Perhaps, Toki hadn't noticed? Or maybe he just wanted to eat it later?

"I amn'ts hungries."

"More for me!" William immediately took custody of the steak. No, no, that was for Toki, he needed the nutrients. Jean-Pierre flicked William's nose, and crossed his arms. Thankfully, it seemed to work. "Fine, jeesch..."

"I says I don't wants nones."

Perhaps that was when things changed, the moment Toki pushed out of the table. The second he left was the second that Jean-Pierre became part-chef and part-psychiatrist. Regardless, he decided to wrap up the steak and put it in the fridge for later. He even wrote Toki's name on it. 

It was a problem the whole time, Jean-Pierre was sure. He was just too blind to realize. That Nathan ate very little and that Murderface spewed out his dinner when he felt the time was right. And Jean-Pierre, the undying and powerful soul he was, would not let his hard work go to waste. It had to be something more than what was on the surface. Though he wasn't much of a thinker, he was more of a doer. Perhaps this'd be a bit of a change of pace.

"Take care of yourself"

He wrote it on a small card on Toki's plate the next morning. Belgian waffles with syrup, strawberries, whipped cream and blueberries. 

"Ah, I don'ts needs all 'dis."

'Of course you do', Jean-Pierre wanted to grab Toki's shoulders and shake him like a ragdoll. Damn his sensitive stitching, his shoddy work, his messed up brain and face and speaking parts. It weighed heavy on him like a cloud of regret. He shook his head, and pointed to the card. "Take care of yourself". Toki scrunched his nose a bit. It was his favorite. Nathan hadn't even shown up, and Pickles replaced his breakfast with acid tabs and booze. Jean-Pierre's heart sank. "I says no, I don't wants it." 

Even Charles had been living on nothing but coffee. It made Jean-Pierre's job all too easy. And poor Skwisgaar, he was so anxious he could hardly keep food down. Oh, how he'd failed at his one job, his easy job, his one stupid job.

_Fils de pute._

"Don't looks at me likes dat."

He shook his head. Damn, sometimes he couldn't help but stare. Hell with him! "Just quits standin's dere, I's sicks a' the looks a' ya." Toki was a brat sometimes. Jean-Pierre decided it would be a good time to withdraw, rather than allowing his face to meet another, sharper blade. But he still had the waffles left over. Murderface took them without a word.

"More for me."

Jean-Pierre questioned whether this was worth speaking up about.

"Don't get sick."

"Shut the fuck up, Jean-Pierre." What a stubborn little kid.

"Don't get sick." What else was he supposed to say? Murderface rolled his eyes, shoving a mouthful of syrup and cream into his gaping maw. Toki was a bit thin. Maybe he'd ought to start with something lighter. A soup? Or saltine crackers? "Toki. Be strong."

Toki rose an eyebrow.

"...Rights."

Jean-Pierre decided he'd be better off not speaking. 

-

It was late at night when he finally saw Nathan with a store-bought cake horking down food like a madman. Though it filled Jean-Pierre with great joy, he knew the poor man would end up starving the next day. Fluctuating weight. It was frightening. He looked despondent. 

It was gone again in minutes and he disappeared. 

He felt tired and defeated. It was hard, oh, it was hard, he just wanted to see them happy and healthy and living. Though he himself had problems with eating, after a brush with death at the hands of a copter, he decided he'd stay alive as well as he possibly could. This was a fast world he lived in! He needed to run with it and he needed to be there where no other chef would be. To cross ground nobody else had even touched. The power! The determination!

He rose up with a sudden burst of power. Was this what he had been waiting for?

Then he sat back down. He couldn't fake motivation. He had been allowing chicken wings to sit in buttermilk overnight, but perhaps the boys weren't in the mood for fried stuff anymore. What in the hell WERE they in the mood for?

He swallowed.

Suicide, probably.

Throwing down whatever tool was in his hands, he took to his room. A scarcely-decorated little armpit of a home, complete with a flickering lamp. Sleeping after the accident meant wearing his jaw in a sling to keep it from falling clean off. It was hard, it was hard, it was hard. He choked and he sputtered and he slept. But then he woke up again less than a moment, a minuscule second later, a sixteenth note of time. 

"You gots anythin's in de kitchens?"

It was Skwisgaar. "Somethin's lights. Likes, de snacks."

"...Check the cab'net."

"Ja, olrights." Skwisgaar shuffled off. Poor kid. Everyone was having so much food trouble. Jean-Pierre wasn't certain who to blame for it -- Magnus Hammersmith, most likely. That dirty rat who kidnapped and deprived Dethklok's rhythm guitarist of his basic needs, using him and Abigail as bait. Dirt. Scum. Filth.

-

"Seth told me 'e wants t' come 'ere." Pickles grumbled, taking a swig from a bottle of Jack. "Makes me wanna die."

"He must be in a pretty shit mood, though." Nathan snatched the bottle and took a sip.

"Yeh, but I hate 'im."

"Come on, dude, be cool, he's like... your brother."

The days were dragging on slow like flies in molasses. And uneaten food had been piling up for a long time. Everything moved thickly, trudging through mud, cotton stuffing his ears. The luster of their eyes had stopped shining long before Jean-Pierre even got this job.

But now all was silent in his head.

Before it was a constant ringing. Where's Toki, is he okay, is everything going to be alright, do I get to keep my job? But now it was just quiet. Like a radio that couldn't access a station. The radio station for Jean-Pierre's thoughts was off the air, and its signal was miles and miles from here anyhow. 

He crossed himself once. In Seth's honor. That little bastard.

God have mercy.

"Hey John-Peter."

Jean-Pierre winced at the way Pickles butchered his name. Of course. "Y'gaht any, uh... prosciutto?" Prosciutto. That was a food. His heart leapt and bounced. His job. His purpose. "Maybe like, mozzarella cheese... Mmmm..."

"We do."

"Could y'give me some'a that?"

Immediately he pranced over to the fridge, so fast his neck almost snapped back. His prayers were answered.

"Give some for your friends."

"...Y'mean, like, Toki?"

"Oui. Yes."

"...Alright."

Oh yes, thank you.


End file.
